A Writer's Book of Days....

2012-01-20T14:14:00.000-08:00

What am I doing?

This place is sucking the life out of me. Sucking me dry of soul, originality, personality. Of me. What am I doing here?

I made a bad decision, one that's found me in a place where I'm told I must take seven steps to the left when I know I could take one to the right and end up in the same spot. And it is not as it is in life, where the journey is key, where the path is desirable and full of lessons and laughs. It is a job where speed and accuracy are all that matter. I am drowning in despair and have lost myself so completely. Worst of all, it is all my fault. I made the choice.

And as it rains and remains grey outside, so it does inside my heart. I pick myself up and get myself back there, where I die a little more each day.

write write write

2012-01-12T23:08:00.000-08:00

how does one do it when one doesn't even want to, how does one not even want to?

it's funny, this time last year when I was trying to actually do the writing every day, things really did come more easily. not every day, not every time, but mostly. the more i wrote the more i had to write. i guess i need to oil my rigs or cogs or wheels, that's it, that's the word, wheel. i need to oil it then spin it.

i need to write to write.

what a difference a year makes. i can not know with any certainty what i was doing at this exact moment a year ago. it would have been a wednesday, we would probably have had a family dinner and i wouldn't have been working. actually i may have been doing this exact thing only in a completely different place, literally. then i would have been sat high on an island, facing the kitchen, the sink and window, my mom might have been behind me on the couch watching craig ferguson. i may have had ear plugs in and might have been listening to bon iver, if i'd discovered them yet. my life in front of me, a whole year ahead, what i knew then to what i know now...no matter how hard i spin that wheel, there are no words.

now i lay in my bed, surrounded by a serene green, sheltered from the busy street by long, cream canvas curtains. the lady with elephants on her feet upstairs is getting ready for bed and her stomps i now find soothing. my boy lies snoring and sweaty beside me, my left foot tucked under his knee.

there is a lot still to come and i can not say i am prepared, ready or able for it, but as with everything else, there is no choice.

i am happy where i am and so there is one battle won. for now.

i must write and write and write.

Today...

2012-01-11T10:57:00.000-08:00

...today is cleanup day, our house is perhaps the most disgusting it's ever been. And even though I was awake at 9, with my alarm, I have yet to do anything other than drink tea. But here we go. I am also going to make some Zero Point soup and maybe give my Bread Maker another go.

Also just received this diddy via UPS...we'll see if I work it into my day.

Blog Overhaul

2012-01-09T13:42:00.000-08:00

Alright I am trying to spruce things up.

Here we are, again, January and me attempting to bring this baby back to life. If you are here, if anyone is here reading this, bare with me for the umpteenth time, my internet brain is super passe and completely uncool and I have zero idea of what I'm doing as far as layout, template and linking goes. I can't even figure out how to add more links or who to even link to, does anyone still blog?

I must now get back to life on the other side of this screen, having taken a look around and seeing I only have an hour before I must get ready for work, and knowing if Drew came home to find the place in the same condition it was after I cleaned out the fridge last night, I'd be in an awful lot of trouble, and worse over, would never be able to play the "I do everything around here" card again.

If there is anyone out there, still blogging, still reading, please add me to your page and I can do the same...well maybe if I can figure it out!

p.s. check out my new pages . . .

2012-01-04T01:50:00.000-08:00

I have resorted to wearing my boyfriends pants. Like, out of the house. Granted they are sweatpants, and it was only to my mothers, but, either way, I have resorted to the only pair of pants that fit me comfortably. My boyfriends sweatpants.

Great.

Great way to start the year. I am of course speaking sarcastically, this is not a great way to start a year. This time last year I was dramatically slimmer, though this time last year I was also single and had no boyfriend whose sweatpants I could wear.

Six of one or so it goes.

On another note pertaining to this time's, and years, my Writer's Book of Days, 365 plan for writing every day did not pan out so well. I started with good intentions, with motivation, and a plan, a plan of change. 2011 was going to be my year, something big was going to happen for me in my life and 2011 was the time, I was going to take the reigns and make it be. My eye so firmly on the prize, my sights blind to anything else, my obsession the very air I breathed, I got hit with a left handed uppercut I never saw coming and hit the floor a dead weight. There would be change, oh how there would be change. There would be shock and awe and tears, so very many tears, anger, regret, desolation, and love. And so my Writer's Book of Days got lost in the debris, in the losing of my home, my job, my family, the continually darkening and all encompassing depression that follows me from sleep to wake, to work and back to home. It just did, it got lost, and I let it, I had to. In the whirlwind that was my life there were things I just could not hold on to.

When I foolishly asked 2011 for something, anything, when I sold my soul to it for something, anything, I got what I'd asked for. A year that seemed to seamlessly roll through me with tornado like effects. A year that went right on without me, carelessly stopping for moments to shake me, to bring me back to consciousness, to scream in my face with wind and fury "IS THIS WHAT YOU MEANT...is this what you wanted?" And I in such shock, acting as a coward, shook my head and buried my crying eyes into the arms of what may perhaps be the big thing to happen to me in my life. Things fit in spaces that were not there before.

But here we are, a year later, new home, new job, new man, new life...new plan? While I've hoped this year will bring redemption and reason, even reward for the things last year took from me, I fear I will continue to struggle with regret and longing. So from you, 2012, I ask for closure, acceptance of the things I lost, the things I threw away, and maybe help to find the things I've only misplaced. I know now the only way to go is forward, the path behind is washed away. And so even after all 2011 took from me I must thank it, for it did leave me with something, with someone, and maybe that was the plan, maybe it needed to strip me of everything so I could finally move forward.

Night - March 8, 2011

2011-05-30T14:30:00.000-07:00

She sat, uninspired, desolate even, her mind an empty canyon where once rushing rapids ran wild. Pen and paper in front of her, splayed on the desk below, open to a blank page. Cashmere throw, tossed around her shoulders, one side having slipped revealing a bare shoulder. Night came so quickly now, even though summer approached, and with it the inability to get even the simplest of chores done. Oh it will be night soon, she thought, there is no time left now to change the world, there is supper to make. And so a day would pass, and then another, until it was suddenly June, half a year, with what to show?

Usually the nights were not as bad as this but tonight she found herself alone, no distractions, no hugs or laughter, or easily maneuvered task. So at her desk she sat, blank page in front of her, unused pen staring straight through her, challenging her to put it to great use. Occasionally she would throw a glare it's way, what did a pen know anyway, it had one job and one job only and she, it's boss, having no use of it, threw it violently into the drawer, along with her notebook and slamming it shut stormed off to find a dark corner to sleep in.

2011-05-10T01:11:00.000-07:00

"O.k. we can't talk about hockey anymore," my mom says, suddenly serious, "we have to talk to you." And for the second time in my life I feel a real fear, the type of fear you can only feel when your healthy mother, at the age of sixty, says the words "we need to talk."

I was quickly reassured by her mannerisms that it was not about her health. And in those split seconds before the words came out, I was able to process the fact that it couldn't be about anyone else's. She would never be the one to tell me if it were.

"We've looked at an apartment." And right away my whole world, walls and roof, fall down.

I'd completely forgotten about last year when I'd heard the Realtor's message on the answering machine. Or the time they snuck out to do "some business" one Tuesday before our girls night. I'd forgotten how my sister and our girlfriends all sat around outside, on our deck, and analyzed, concluded, that there was no way they would sell this house. As time passed, nothing happened, and we forgot.

I already knew this would be the year I finally left here for good, actually set off on my own, not to follow a boy, not to follow adventure, but to begin my own life in my own place. I decided after my birthday this past December, after, yet, another heartbreak, it was time to start my life. I had finally accepted that perhaps someone wasn't going to come in and sweep me off my feet, carry me down the easy road, and so, I had to carry myself. I knew that at the end of December 2011 I would not be in the same place physically, mentally, emotionally as I was in December of 2010. It would be my year's mission. I began actively pursuing apartments in the area, setting my heart on an old building, a classic heritage building only three blocks from where I currently live. I was scared, but knew I'd survive because there is never any other option.

So when my mother and step father proceed to tell me of their plan, it is not the helplessness of homelessness that brings tears to my eyes, but the complete desolation of losing this house.

Twenty two years, two marriages, three newborns, new sisters, countless move outs, and even more moves back, love, life, laughter and death. This house, these walls, this magical place, empty of us. Us empty without it. I knew it was my time to move on, but I always assumed I could come back. I had dreamed of this house one day becoming mine, I had called it, and believed it, the best house in the world, and most of those who have walked through it's doors, felt it's love, have agreed.

Yesterday I spent crying, today I've tried to see the good side, mostly I've tried not to think. Yesterday memories flashed through my mind non stop. Yesterday I decided to count the times I walked out the door from now until the last, today I couldn't bare it. Devastation does not begin to describe the emotion that has taken me over and will, I'm scared to admit, hold me in its grips for as long as I am capable of thought. For all my life to come, no matter what home I make mine, and what way my life may go, this home will be where everything that ever happened to me to this point, happened. This home saved my life, this home made my life, made me me. It is not walls and mortar, gyprok, and hardwood floors, this house is magic and love, and life itself. It is not simply the house I grew up in, I grew up many places. It is not simply a family home, it was magic before we got here and from there it grew, we grew, the memories and the people that fill this place, breathe life into the very walls. The stories on the deck, the tears cried into the carpet, the laughter barreling down the halls, always an open door, always scratches on the floor, wine in the wine rack, tea in the tea pot. It's been everyone's home, sheltered everyone's despair, blow after blow.

And I do not know how to breathe, knowing one day it will be empty, and then holding someone new.

You hear music in the background - April 25, 2011

2011-04-25T23:52:00.000-07:00

I must have dozed off, when I awoke things seemed foggy, especially my thoughts. It was as if time stopped for just a moment, the air stood still, like the whole room held its breath, waiting, wondering, guessing whether I'd recognize my surroundings or the time of day. After blinking a bit, I rubbed my eyes to clear the cobwebs and though I still saw through blurry, dirty eyes, I began to put the pieces together. In the background, of what I thought at first was my mind, I heard music, a piano playing softly, somewhere. I wondered at first if I'd brought it with me from my dream, and then, if I'd dreamed at all. No, in my dream I'd been....I'd been....wait, what had been a dream, what had I been doing...a piano.

Piano.

In the distance I heard music, a piano, it was coming from downstairs. I was awake now, for sure, I knew it, awake. I sat up quickly. "Someone is playing the piano" I whispered. Confused in the way only a midday snooze can arrange. Beethoven..Sonata...No.14...

Jacklyn. Jacklyn must be playing, Portia must be dancing.

I got up and noticed the weather had changed, the storm was on it's way, light grey clouds covered the land and let off mists of rain. In the distance dark grey clouds rolled in, and fell from the sky in great big chunks of wet. "Windows." I would check them later but first "I'm cold". I grabbed the grey blanket and found my slippers, downstairs Jacklyn slipped and missed a key but picked up where she'd left off as if it had never happened. That girl would push on until there were no mistakes left to make and she would never make another one ever again. Especially not ever the same one.

When I reached the top of the stairs I saw that I was right. Jacklyn sat at the keys, draped in a thick black shawl, her hair high up, tightly wound in a bun, without a hair out of place. I saw the delicate line of her neck and watched as she ever so slightly swayed with each note she tapped. Her feet were bare, they must have been cold. In front of her on the cold rose marbled floor, Portia stood in third position, pink ballet slippers tied tight, peach nylons and black leotard. She also wore her hair on top of her head, but in a much looser ponytail that had at the last minute been tucked back into the elastic. Portia was flawless. She never had to make a mistake to learn not to make it again, she just never seemed to do anything wrong. Any stumble she turned into choreography and with each point of a toe, stretch of a finger, or turn of the neck, she taught love. I rested my elbows on the banister, my chin in my hand and found myself swaying, marveling at my luck. Benjamin sat at the bottom of the stairs, he had a book open in his lap, but turned over resting on his knees, he gazed off, just above Jacklyn's head, lost in thought. Benjamin looked like his father but with lighter hair. He was built like him as well, thick and strong, with the kindest face ever imagined and a heart to match, just like his father. He noticed me then and smiled, such a smile to finally wake me from my dream. Jacklyn finished the song, Portia, bent straight over from the waist, nose to knee, arms crossed at the wrist, hands splayed delicately on the floor in front of her.

Write about eating a meal - April 5th, 2011

2011-04-22T23:34:00.000-07:00

She sat in bed propped up against three pillows. In her hands she fiddled with the beaded necklace, she'd been told amethyst and the crystals that made up the necklace would help with the pain she was feeling in her back and ribs. Shingles, is what the doctor had called it, daggers was more how she'd describe it. Or tiny flamed arrows shooting into her ribcage and setting tiny little fires under her skin. Not to mention the strain and sprain she felt in her elbow and wrist every time she went to lift a cup of tea. What had started as discomfort in the middle of her back had turned into a pain so ferocious she had not ever felt anything like it. Not even child birth, though Daniel had been particularly painful, and big, could compare to the aching and burning and anticipation for such, that she felt now. So here she sat, resting against her pillows, bored right out of her mind.

She had an Easter dinner to prepare as well, a menu to complete, ham to select, potatoes to peel, tables to set. Chocolate eggs to hide.

Instead she sat and sat and sat.

Persie had brought her some soup but Anna's mind was so set on a different kind she could scarce enjoy it, though at one time or another it had been her favourite kind. One of Thomas' friends had brought back with him, after taking a tour through Turkey, some foreign spices and Anna had made up a carrot cumin soup. A hit throughout the house and yet today all she could think of was ham and ham bones and split peas and split pea and ham soups. The Easter meal was consuming her and even the spicy aroma emanating from the pumpkin coloured soup beside her could do nothing to take her mind from it. She rang a bell and, had Persie not been so sweet to look at, Anna might have thrown the soup bowl at her out of sheer frustration and boredom.

"You can take this, Persie, I am not hungry. I am however, considering scaling the walls, though I'm sure the movement of throwing my legs over the side of this bed would incite riots throughout my body and I would explode right here on the spot."

Persie went to remove the tray from Anna's nightstand, hesitated, thought better of asking a question pertaining to the Easter feast and backed away. Anna, attuned to noticing anything different than the four walls that had surrounded her this past week, noticed and putting a hand on Persie's forearm, raised an eyebrow.

"I was just wondering if I could get you anything else, my dear, anything else to eat, or read, or perhaps your notebook to write in?" Persie had put the tray back onto the nightstand and had now placed her hand on Anna's forehead.

Anna was suddenly angry and with that anger came an idea, a way to perhaps soothe some of her frustration. "Yes, fetch me Jacklyn please, tell her to bring a pen and paper and to come at once."

Write about a brief ecounter - February 15, 2011

2011-04-07T16:50:00.000-07:00

When Anna was younger she used to spend the summers at her Aunt Phillis' farm. She loved the farm, she enjoyed getting up early to help Uncle Joe feed the chickens and the pigs. She loved feeding grass to the cows by hand, the way they chewed so lazily out the sides of their mouth, how one strand of wheat could take so long to eat. She loved helping Phillis with the baking and the cooking and she loved her bedroom upstairs with the window that looked out over everything. She would sit on her windowsill, and look out on the land, long after all the lights had been turned off and everyone else had fallen asleep. She could sometimes see the pigs change position, snuggle up to each other and occasionally a lone lost chicken would peck his way around outside his pen. This chicken quickly became her favourite, he had a blue rubber band around his foot, she guessed sometimes he went further than the farm and this blue band was a way to get him home if anyone stumbled upon him. She felt a kinship to this chicken, like if she'd been a chicken she would want to wander too, she understood his quest for quiet, some alone time...She would usually doze off this way and wake to the call of a rooster.

Anna loved the farm. Her favourite part of all though was when the Radley boys would come to pick up milk and eggs. There were three Radley boys, Joey, Marcus and Matthew, Matthew was the youngest, a year or so younger than her, Joey was the oldest and Marcus was just a scoundrel. The first time she'd seen them she'd been cleaning out the pigs trough, elbow deep in sludge she went to wipe a hair from tickling her nose and noticed a pair of legs in front of the fence. When she looked up she saw a little boy in a cowboy hat chewing on straw.

"Well Hello there, little girl" Matthew said with a southern drawl.

"Well....hello there to you too." Anna replied.

"What are you doing in there?" The drawl fading.

"Well..." Anna fought between rudeness or friendliness, "I'm cleaning out Welly's trough, what does it look like!" she smiled larger than necessary seeing that she so desperately wished she could take back the last thing she said. She hadn't meant to be rude but what did it look like she was doing?

Matthew snorted and laughed "Oh, I guess you're right! Looks gross."

Before she could answer, Matthew's older brother called from near the barn.

"Well, I best be going," again with the accent, "It was a pleasure to meet you, girl." and he tipped his hat as he turned to go.

"Anna" she yelled after him, "my name is Annabelle."

Matthew stopped and turned back around, this time he removed his hat and took a small bow "Well then I guess it was nice to meet you, Anna Annabelle."

What a silly little boy, she thought.

Every morning - March 31, 2011

2011-04-06T16:47:00.000-07:00

Every morning he holds me. Every morning, when I've put off getting up for long enough, and take my legs out from under the covers, or grab my shirt from the floor beside the bed, he wraps his arm around my stomach and pulls me back to him. Sometimes he grabs the shirt and throws it away and then wraps his arm around me, pulling me in, cupping my breasts. He pushes up to me and I am helpless.

Every morning I plan on waking earlier, on getting out of bed and starting my day before it becomes afternoon, so much time keeps passing and we just lay here. Sometimes I think these days aren't wasted because I am building a future foundation. I've spent so much time alone, I deserve some time in some one's arms. Sometimes I think the world is going to end, like they say, and so why shouldn't I lay in bed all day with this man's arms wrapped tightly around me, his hands seeking every crook and cranny of my body. This man who would devour my every cell if it were possible to do so while still leaving me whole. This man who is too good for me. This man whose heart is too pure for me to be in charge of, I fear.

Every morning we lay there, my breasts and stomach pressed against his back, my lips on his shoulder, thighs and knees locked into his, or his chest against my back, his legs spooned into mine, his nose and mouth, breath on my neck. For a few minutes I let myself feel as lucky as I am, I close my eyes and balance on that point of sleep and wake only it's not sleep that wants to take me under, it's bliss, it's bliss and life and every morning I get to travel through them both like a crashing wave.

It was a rainy day. - April, 4, 2011

2011-04-04T19:25:00.000-07:00

Yes it was.

She sat on the window seat, her forehead pressed against the glass, lost in the weather outside. For awhile her thoughts were none, her head blank, almost as if she were asleep, except for the cold window pressed on her head, and the sound of the rain as it fell all around.

The fire crackled loudly behind her, and as if waking from a dream she shrugged off the cobwebs that had closed around her brain. Love, is what she had been thinking about originally, at her desk in front of the other window, closer to the warmth of the fire. She'd been questioning love, or more precisely, the love she felt for Thomas. She loved him, she was sure of that, but there was something distinctly missing, she was not crazy about him. I've been crazy over someone or another for all of my life, I am content now just to be happy. She was happy, the happiest she thought she'd ever been. She rose from her desk, grabbed the red cashmere throw and sat down at the window to think. From where she sat she could see down the hill and across to the lake, she went into a daze as she watched the lake get pelted with raindrops. No one out there today, no deer even lapping at it's edge. She tucked her toes under the blanket and pressed her head against the glass, and there she stayed for quite some time.

Perhaps it was because it had never happened before or perhaps it was that it wasn't what she thought she wanted. Perhaps it was because it wasn't what was supposed to happen, or perhaps it was just her inherent need to self destruct. Vanity, selfishness, an inability to let all the others go, who knew.

She unwrapped herself and stretched, the house was empty and she went down to the kitchens to make a cup of tea. Down here the rain sounded louder, some how, as it poured down on the tin roof of the kitchen sheds, she realized a window was open. Before going to close it she put water on the stove to boil, reaching the window she placed her hand outside to feel the rain. It was unseasonably cold for April and her hand soon went numb, she lost herself in thought again and only came too when the water on the stove started to hiss as it boiled over and hit the heat. She woke suddenly and snatched her freezing, raw hand inside and pushed the window shut.

Perhaps it was just a melancholy sort of day.

Write about taking the long way round - March 22, 2011

2011-03-23T00:43:00.000-07:00

Do you think, in a way, every way is the long way round.

We seem to think we always know what we want.

Or knew what we wanted.

But we take the long way round to find what we need isn't at all what we want.

Or we take the long way round to see what we never wanted is indeed exactly what we need.

Though the short cut remains appealing.

Always.

This is where she left it, with nothing left to say, her thoughts went from one to the other, as they always did. Putting down the pen and closing her journal, she placed the leather bound book in the second drawer on the left side of her desk.

Just as she began to lock the drawer a scene flashed before her eyes and she let out a giggle. Opening the drawer she fetched her journal and flipped back a few pages.

Sunday, Springtime.

Thomas leaned forward, captivated by the two men below. Boys will be boys, I thought. He turned and asked "Which one is the alpha male?"

I looked on, pondering, at first I was going to say the dark skinned man, as he seemed so much stronger, but then changed my mind to the light skinned man for he seemed so determined and passionate.

Just as I was about to answer "I don't know" he turned around with a grin and pointed at me, "It's a trick question" he said, "they are both alpha males, that's why they're colliding." And with a nod and a smirk he looked away.

I laughed, once again taken aback by this man I so constantly deem less intelligent than myself. Once again he'd surprised me with his humour and timing and ability to pull me along at a pace I am never able to set.

"Oh, Thomas."

Anna closed the book and locked it away in her drawer, pausing a moment to watch out the window as her husband played with his nephews in the front yard. She felt a warmth and contentment somewhat new to her, even though they'd been married over a year now, and she wondered if this warmth was what love was. The absolute comfort of continually being surprised by someone you continually want to be beside.

It had been less than an hour since he'd kissed her cheek and left her to write, she could bare it no longer. Pulling her hair back and taking her slippers off "it's a no shoes kind of day" she said, she went to join the festivities outside. As soon as she was close enough he pulled her to him and squeezed her tight, she breathed in the warmth. And as he greeted her, "Hello, gorgeous!", they were bombarded with nieces and nephews and forced to give chase as cries of "TAG! You're it!" rang out.

It was noon and nothing was concluded - January 18, 2011

2011-03-17T01:59:00.000-07:00

"I've had enough of this today, tomorrow, and for the rest of my life."

"Well, son, it is a very important -"

"NO! That's the thing, it isn't. It isn't important to anyone but you." Incredulous, Thomas raises his voice.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, dear, and am also unsure how you can feel that way." A statement only, for she wasn't interested in the answer.

"We live in the middle of nowhere, mama, no one cares anymore about royalty or tradition. The people in this town, this county, want work and safety, that is all. They do not care who marries who or what goes on in the big house on the big hill so long as there is food on their tables and warmth in their beds, smiles on their babes."

"But Thomas, we are running out of time.."

"Time? What time? What has time to do with anything, you simply want to be rid of me, or rid of the gossip your little old lady friends whisper about around your knitting circle."

"Thomas!" Finally raising her own voice. "I am still your mother and you will speak to me with respect and you will speak of those in my life with kindness. Now, this is not debatable any longer, you will begin actively pursuing someone suitable to take this family's name and help carry on it's legacy."

"I am not interested in marriage for marriages sake, Mother, and neither were you."

He never liked playing this card, bringing up his father to buy himself more time. And to be honest he could see nothing wrong with marriage and did understand where his mother was coming from, but there was no way he was marrying the Drake's oldest fattest sister, the George's youngest with the limp, or even the beautiful but oh so very dull and droll Ramsay girl.

Having softened her up a bit, Thomas placed a hand on his mother's knee and got down on his own, "Mother, let me find her by fluke, by fate, the time is come for things to change and I, I am sorry, but I will not change my mind this time."

Before she could answer they were interrupted by Thomas' cousin David, bursting through the doors, all light and air and noise.

"David!"

"Cousin David, impeccable timing, as usual." Thomas said, whispering the last.

"Auntie Tanner" David, the devilish charmer to Thomas' kind one, bent to kiss his aunt on the cheek.

"Oh, David you know I hate when you call me that."

"You love it!" And following with his smile, the matter dropped. Thomas' mother, seduced by her nephew's twinkling smile, let the matter go and all but forgot what was going on in the first place, before mischief broke through the doors. "I was wondering if I might take my cousin Thomas here out for a ride."

"You flatter me, David, whether you ask permission or not, I fear the days of Thomas listening to me are long gone. Go on, get out and enjoy the day." And as though the mention of Thomas' name brought back their conversation she said this through pursed lips, the smile vanishing like it had never once crossed her lips in all her life.

Blue - the colour or the emotion. - February 18, 2011

2011-03-10T16:13:00.000-08:00

When Benjamin was born, someone had knit him a pair of blue booties, and they hung now from her dresser. She would spend, what seemed like anyways, hours staring at these blue booties, not really thinking at all, until someone would enter the room and break her trance. Most often it was her husband, coming with news of new sounds Benjamin had made, or how he was sure, this time for sure, a smile had crossed their sweet baby boys lips. For awhile she feinted interest, pride, joy, but as the weeks passed she lost even the energy for that.

What she had gained though, seemingly impossible as it were, was an even greater love and respect for her husband and his patience with her. She relished the times he'd join her in bed, laying beside her, stroking her arm or brushing her hair. She had very easily, and quickly, fallen in love with him at the start, and despite the ups and downs that met them along their path, she loved him more each day. This conflicted, greatly, with what she assumed the cause of her current state of melancholy was. David and his new bride had set off on a world tour with no date, time or place of return. And although over the years she hadn't seen him often, and in fact only once on her own, there was always that beam of light whenever his name was ushered or he graced them with his presence.

It had almost been a year since Benjamin was conceived, how different Septembers could be, this one mimicking her mood, grey, dreary, wet, last years bright, hot, sunny, emulating those times as well. It was late September when they'd made Ben and summer clung on with it's talons. Anna had been so hot and thirsty as Thomas' breath changed from waking to sleeping, leaving her alone in her haze, she ventured down to the kitchens. David sat, leaning back in his chair hands folded behind his head, at the table all alone, two glasses in front of him. He didn't seem surprised to see her and joked he'd been expecting her, that she would surely need refreshments after...well "....after." He'd said with a grin, alluding to the fact he'd heard her and Thomas upstairs. He pushed a glass towards her, and unsure whether she should be mortified, aroused, or nervous, she was distracted by a door closing down the hall to the left. She glanced that way and he slid the glass towards her again. "Here, sit."

They stayed up til the sun rose, taking a walk around the grounds, raiding the fridge, him explaining things she had never known, like why the maze had been made, which tree had been planted first in the orchard and why. How her mother and father in law, the latter she had never met, were inspirations to any hopeless romantic and how his aunt had only turned sour after losing her husband. When the time finally came for her to go back to bed he touched her hand, grabbed it actually and they stood there for a moment, eyes locked, saying nothing. She searched her mind for something to say but found it had up and left leaving only her heart to skip its beats. Finally she bit her lip and looked away.

"I'm sorry for dirtying your dress." He said squeezing her hand and letting it drop, never breaking his gaze. He moved towards her, she froze, and he kissed her cheek. "Goodnight, cousin." Her eyes were closed and she hadn't opened them until he was gone.

She opened them and looked down, my dress, she thought "...my dress?" She looked after him but he was gone. Her dress was in fact only her nightie and was as clean as it had been when she'd pulled it out of the drawer. "My dress?" and placing her fingers to her cheek, to the spot he'd kissed, it all came back. Her heart jumped up and over and she exhaled with a laugh. She threw her head back "Oh David" and shook it. The day they'd first ever crossed paths, down by the river, months before she'd fallen in and Thomas had rescued her, David had rode hard past her, splaying her with mud. "Oh." He'd said, quite unconcerned after she'd let out a growl. "OH?! Look what you've done to my dress!" And then he winked, grinned, and rode away.

They had never spoken about that day, that time, Anna had come to believe he hadn't known it was her, had never put it together. But now, now she knew he had, she knew he knew and so she was given something to hold on to, something to cling to this nonexistent love affair. He knew, he remembered, he's known all along. He thinks of me then...he thinks of me like I think of him. And his never having mentioned it before was only another sign of his guilt, of his mind and heart holding strong to that moment, to the only real moment she had ever felt. To the only moment they could go to without the guilt because Thomas had not existed for her that day, and neither her for him. Yes, his not acknowledging it has done the opposite of what he's intended, she thought, he has been suffering too. She went back to bed, before crawling in she took off her nightgown and climbing in, pressed her naked body on to Thomas. She wrapped her arm around him and put her hand between his legs. They made quick, soft love and she fell asleep before he even drew out of her. He knew not that she'd ever left the bed.

David left later that day and didn't return for four months. When he came back, he wasn't alone.

Everything was so confusing to her, she loved her husband, that was undeniable, and yet had ached for his cousin for all these years. She'd had this baby whom she could not love and wanted, more now than ever, to be alone with her husband at all times and now David was gone, gone on some honey moon with some girl she would never love or even like. Blue couldn't even begin to describe her mood these days.

Write about a secret revealed. - March 9, 2011

2011-03-09T21:30:00.000-08:00

The second passed, and then the next, silence. What was more than likely only a second or two, dragged into a lifetime, hers in fact. As the words slipped out of Marrissa's mouth, as those last two sounds tipped out of the pot and dripped off her tongue, she fell back into the past. Suddenly she was by the river that fateful day so long ago, and next she was by the apple tree where Thomas got down on one knee, then the kitchen, David's hand on hers. Then the kiss. And quicker now, in faster flashes as the first second dragged into the next, realizing she had to say something, her silence dragging out the guilt. Flash flash flash, David, Thomas, Bethany, water, mother, David...Thomas. Thomas.

Opening her eyes she saw before her her daughters, Jaclyn and Portia, and her sister in law Marrissa. It had been an honest mistake, a secret kept hidden for more than 35 years revealed. Jaclyn, of course, stared at her mother with what could of been shock or disgust, or pain even. Portia, on the other hand, of course, smiled, a knowing, kind smile. Portia always understood everything and if she didn't, she tried. Marrissa, in tears, hand over mouth, coughed and broke the silence.

"Well, I guess we weren't meant to take that to the grave." Anna said, attempting to bring humour to fight the first bit of battle. Humour, the champion in any corner.

Portia first, always Portia, reached out and placed a hand on her mothers knee. "Oh Mama, how horrible it must of been, and exhilarating!" she added with a look of excitement.

Jacklyn seemed mortified now, perhaps with the images of her mother and father's cousin finally settling in behind her eyes.

Marrissa: "I am so sorry Annabelle! I can not believe after all this time this is how it came out."

"Yes, well, thank god it is just the four of us!" she giggled, "Jaclyn, can you say something? Please, dear." And now it was Anna reaching out to Jacklyn's knee. "I loved your father very much and he loved me. We were happy....a happy I could have never imagined before meeting him."

"Then why Uncle David?"

Anna thought and began to shake her head. "These things just happen. Sometimes, they just happen." she shrugged.

"So how? What happened-" Portia began but Anna could only shrug. "But...well tell me everything. Start at the beginning."

Anna squeezed Jaclyn's leg and bent closer to look her straight in the eye, "Jaclyn, will you listen to my story before you judge me? It's a love story, like you love. It's just this one has three people instead of two."

"But that's impossible, love stories can never end happily with three people."

"Can you give me the chance? If you give me the chance perhaps you can help me make sure this one does."

Jaclyn raised her eyes to meet her mothers, Anna gave her a reassuring nod, goading her to come along for the ride. Jaclyn caved by looking down and muttering "ok."

I fell down a well.

2011-03-08T14:09:00.000-08:00

The other day I went out for a leisurely stroll when quite out of no where some one had dug a big hole.

And so down I went.

I fell down a well and at the bottom were Knights and Kings, oceans and shellfish, and parties galore.

We all know how much I like a party.

Before I knew it, weeks had passed in mere moments, and I found myself unable to leave the rocky cliffs on the sea. There were storms and sunshine, waves, and wind enough to carry you away, and so I went. I rode the wave and spread my arms for the wind and off I've been.

Happiness, like unhappiness, can take us far out to sea, and while back at shore we see all our chores, hobbies, loves, lives, it so rarely comes upon us, it is crucial we allow ourselves that time to float.

I, for once, have someone in my life who likes to rub my feet.

...and, more importantly, I suppose, I, for once, don't want them to stop.

You hear church bells in the distance - February 10, 2011

2011-02-16T01:00:00.000-08:00

Church bells ring in the distance and, momentarily, she is paralyzed.

"David" she sighs.

She is laying, alone, on her back in the back garden, her belly raised high above her, carrying the overdue child who continues to refuse to bless this world with his presence. It is because of him the church bells chime in the distance and not all around her. The sun beats down on her and she covers her eyes with her arm.

She is missing the wedding of her cousin, her husbands cousin and while dismayed, it is perhaps for the best. Though many years had past, there was still something about his smile. His smile and the way his chanced glances always met hers.

But here she was, on his wedding day, escaped into the fresh air, scandalous as usual, laying out in the garden tired of her dusty, clustered room. Tired of this baby.

Difficultly she raises herself up, first to her knees and then to her feet with the help of the bench Thomas had made for her, the kissing bench he'd called it, for their wedding.

Even this outside is making me claustrophobic.

She made her way around the garden, each step taking an effort because of her heavy load. When she reached the end, where the maze began, or the path to the orchards started, she decided to keep going. She would head towards the orchard and then turn down hill to the river.

As she walked she remembered all those years ago when all this had started, one moments miscalculation put her in the river, and destiny took it from there.

After refusing to let her go home on her own, Prince Thomas would have it no other way and lifted her on to his horse, and walked them, carefully, up the hill to the castle. She fought it at first, what business would she have in a castle, and how could she possibly be treated well, but after all the movement of standing and being lifted to the horse, she felt quite light headed. Quite light headed indeed, she ended up bending forward and resting her head on the prince's horse for the rest of the journey. They reached the castle door just in time as she fainted and would have hit the ground had the prince not been at her side and felt her slide.

It is humorous that David had been the first one inside castle walls to see them, Thomas with this wet, dripping, flaccid thing hanging from his arms.

"What in the bloody hell..."

"I found her by the river, she slipped in, I think she lay there wet and cold for several hours."

"Bloody hell."

"Yes, where's Mama?"

"Last I saw, well heard really, she was berating some poor gardener. You really must get married, Thomas, put us all out of misery, save us from your mothers wrath."

"Oh yes, David, I will get right on that after I find out if this dripping girl will live or die. A little help please, can you sit with her while I fetch Anne?"

"I suppose."

Placing her down on the bench in the hall, David sat beside her, not curious of her at all, and Thomas went off in search of help.

She had often wondered what would have happened had she woken up just then, would things have ended differently, would she be the one down at the church this day, bells ringing in her ears.

She made it to the rivers edge, out of breath and not daring to think of how she'd get back up the hill and home. Finding a rock she sat, relieving the pressure and raised her head to the sky, closing her eyes, taking in the sound of the water rushing past her, this is where I needed to be. Perhaps I will stay here forever.

Write about a river - February 8, 2011

2011-02-14T14:55:00.000-08:00

The river carried her not far from where she fell and by some stroke of luck, managed to wash her up to shore, where her dress caught on a branch and left her wading back and forth in a little pool made up of small rocks. If someone had heard her scream, they hadn't rushed to her aid. Fortunately she lay face up and suffered no real injuries. No one knows for sure how long she lay there, unconscious, wet and cold, but it was a horse that first came upon her. And not just any horse.

The prince and his men had been not far off skipping stones and telling tales down at the rivers end, where it met the great lake. It being their land they had no need of tying up horses and so allowed them to roam free. Near the days end some started to depart, heading back up to the castle, or off to the local pub for beer and women. Last to leave, was the prince's cousin, and had things gone any differently, had the prince not called out to him about dinner that night, calling him back and changing his path home by mere inches, it would have been the cousin who found her first. And so instead, leaving the prince with a vulgar joke about one of the ladies maids, the majestic cousin of her dreams, made for the left and took the long way home.

The prince sat for a bit, at first letting his mind wander to that ladies maid and then turned to what he was going to do. He had not yet met anyone suitable for marriage, in his eyes anyways, and the mounting pressure made it hard to think of what he actually even wanted, in a wife, in a life, for himself. Noticing where the sun sat in the sky, he got up and began the search for his horse, and that is how his life changed. What had been laid out before him suddenly was not. It is often in small seconds that lives change, one small decision, yes or no, left or right, the forgetting of an item and having to turn around for just that split second could mean life or death, love, or none.

He came around the corner in search of his horse and saw her first. White, and wet, floating, water rushing over her feet, it took him a second to realize what it was and rushing to her side, slipped a little in the mud.

"Miss?" he said frantically, lifting her out of the water and laying her down on dry land. "Miss! Please..." He pressed his ear to her chest, placed his hand over her mouth, under her nose to feel a breath, if there was any. And while he looked up and around for some sort of guidance she began to cough and splutter. "Oh thank god! Miss? Are you o.k? It is o.k, you are safe now" and he helped to lift her up and turn her over so she could spit out all the water she had swallowed.

She reached up, grabbing at his arm and chest and turning to face him she gasped, realizing what had happened, and being unsure of what was real and what was not, she fell backwards again placing her arm over her eyes. "Is this real?"

The prince, relieved, chuckled "Yess...I'm pretty sure it is. Are you alright?"

"Well I don't know, I'm, I'm just confused...and hurt, not hurt, I don't think, just...what, how long have I been laying here?"

"I couldn't say, I just found you-"

"What time is it?"

"Close to five I would think."

"Oh. It is very cold."

"Yes, indeed, I would think it is." And so he took off his jacket and shirt and helped to wrap her in it.

Laying back down she covered her eyes again with her arm "Aren't you, I mean, you are...Prince Thomas?" she said peaking out.

"Aha, yes, yes I am, perhaps earning that title for the first real time!"

"No.."

"No?"

"No, that would be a knight, if you were a knight you'd be earning it..."

It took him a moment before he burst out in laughter. Surprised at her ability to make a joke at a time like this he looked down to see a smile on her face and even without seeing her eyes, for her arm covered the top of her face, he realized just then how beautiful she was. "Ah yes, your knight in shining armour!"

Lowering her arm just a bit, she peaked out from above it and realized how cold he must be. She sat up and began taking off his clothes, "you must be cold too.."

"Oh no, don't you dare, you'll freeze to death and imagine that scandal!" He said while thinking, even though he didn't know why, as if this won't be scandal enough.

"Well, I should probably be getting home." She said as she tried to rise, losing her balance and for the first time realizing how much her head hurt. She went to touch the throbbing spot above her ear and flinched at the pain of her slight touch.

Because he had not been able to take his eyes off her he saw the pain cross her face and made the final decision in this, act 2, part 1, of his life.

Sunday afternoon - January 1, 2011

2011-02-11T14:28:00.000-08:00

Sunday afternoon, down at the river, she fell in.

Funnily enough, she fell in while day dreaming of falling in. Falling in and the prince, well the prince to be, well, the boy she wished would soon be prince, but was instead, just a boy, a boy with a mischievous smile who set her heart racing.

Well, not just a boy, he was after all the prince's cousin and best friend.

She made her way to her favourite spot, halfway out on the river to one of the boulders whose peak remained free of the water now rushing by it. Carefully, as spring had just set upon them, she placed herself down pulling her dress high up around her so as not to get wet. This is where the dreaming starts. First she picks out the days outfit, something befitting a future princess and yet something able to showcase her originality, Princes don't want Princesses after all, everyone wants what they can not have, and yet still she must look presentable. Once she'd decided on a white, peasant style, floor length summer dress, she decided she'd be barefoot and so took off the shoes she currently wore. She would be blond in these fantasies, of course, she always was, and while she starts her journey wearing the headband made of flowers she'd spent all morning making, with her hair up, she knew, after her inevitable peril into the rushing rapids, her golden locks would be set free. Thus allowing her to have two equally charming hairstyles in one fantasy.

Her thoughts then turned to the prince, what would he be doing this day that he would come across her, or be able to save her. Perhaps he would be out on the hunt with his men, perhaps he'd have escaped the castle walls, finding one small piece of freedom in an otherwise locked up life. Maybe he'd escaped his nasty mother's beckoning and belching and ever prodding and pitiful attempts at finding him a suitable wife and found himself, this unseasonably warm spring day down by the river, trying to think. Perhaps he'd been following her, or had heard this is where she came to spend her Sunday afternoons, staring at clouds, talking to animals, napping in grass. That perhaps was a little too far fetched so she decided he was out with his boys, patrolling his land, that way at least there would be an audience, an audience of boys. (And what more could one want in an audience, really?)

Now her prince wasn't actually the prince, nor would he ever be, he was the prince's cousin and best friend, shorter than the prince and fair haired, with olive skin smoother than any could ever be imagined. He had large teeth, which on anyone else, could have been unattractive but made for his smile to light up a room, a forest, all the land for miles and miles. His laugh too was loud, loud and contagious, loud yet somehow feminine, perhaps his features were even slightly womanly, or no, more child like. He looked so young, so young and fresh and beautiful. So soft yet chiseled, such strong features, angelic though, all the same. The actual prince was fine enough himself, handsome, tall and dark, thick. Dark scruff lined his cheeks and chin and by all accounts was the far better choice for any woman, he was a nice man too, good, kind, caring, well any woman but her. She much preferred the young cousin, who on their first meeting had splashed her with mud and done nothing but grinned, winked, and rode away. She'd been furious at first, and then noticed heat rising, not in her cheeks, or head, but between her legs. The few times she'd seen him since he always tipped his hat to her "M'lady" giving that same wink, a raise of the eyebrow and that grin that made it impossible for her to act think or be any lady at all.

Standing on her stone she decided it was time to get across and so the story in her head continued. She would slip, landing down stream and be carried away, her hair coming loose but staying dry, and around the corner he would be waiting to pluck her free of danger. Having heard her scream he would rush down to the waters edge, casting his glance this way and that until finally he would see her, a vision in white, surrounded by gold waving locks. Without even thinking he would dive in and swim out to meet her, grabbing her just in time by the arm and pulling her in to his chest. She would be unconscious of course and he would pull her to shore where he would look down on her, the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on and helpless to resist would press his lips to hers.

As she allowed herself a moment to savour this particular part of the story, which she always did, she actually did slip in. She'd been reaching up to take her hair down, to let it blow in the wind and she actually misplaced her step and slid right into the river with a splash and a squeal...

At any other time of year she'd have been fine, she was, after all, athletic and had been coming down to this river for over thirteen years. But having had a particularly cold and snowy winter, and having it just all finished thawing, the river was especially high and fast on this warm Sunday afternoon in spring. She spluttered and spat and flailed in an attempt to grab on to something, anything, as the river pulled her down stream. After swallowing much water, and banging into many rocks, she decided it was time to call for help for surely someone somewhere would hear her calls. She gave out one call before noticing the thick stump floating a head of her and realizing, too late, that she would need to duck. Having no time at all to react, her head hit the stump and that was the last she remembered.

Apologies

2011-02-11T02:39:00.000-08:00

My apologies to those who continue to have faith in and support me. Sometimes I disappear, even from myself...which is actually a pretty awesome feeling and, I suppose, is what allows me to write, think or feel, what it is I write, think or feel.

365 days straight was, I guess, always going to be a joke, but it's still a constant, and 5 out of 7 days I still sit down and try, it's just mostly crap that comes out. Which is o.k. too because at least I'm feeding the fire. And for once, that's a good thing.

2011-02-09T17:23:00.000-08:00

alll dried up

Write about a kiss. - February 4, 2011

2011-02-04T14:02:00.000-08:00

Write about a kiss.

Imagine you are trapped, stranded more like, somewhere hot, hot and dry, desert like, I suppose, and if you could count the days you'd assume the last drop of water you had was two and a half days ago. But because delirium has set in, it could have been three days, four months, or five years since your lips last touched water. I've heard if you were extremely dehydrated you'd feel as you do after a night of drinking copious amounts of draft beer, wine, tequila, and for good measure, a couple vanilla vodkas and coke to top it all off. But let's say, for artistic purposes, this desert dehydration is more of the thirsty kind, like you are dreaming of water, like drinking lakes and swimming in oceans, like you would drown yourself if you could. Hop in glacier water and do everything you could to sink yourself to the bottom and just stay, sitting on the sea floor, taking all the water in through your mouth, through your skin, sucking it in any which way you could.

You are dying, in a desert, of thirst, surviving on swallowing alone, almost to the point of not being able to go on, as if you could just lay down and be happy to never know anything ever again. Imagine the point of thirst which could make you want to give up everything.

And then imagine water. Imagine cold, crisp, clean and clear, water, a giant lake all for you. Imagine an endless cup of it and how it would feel on your lips, in your mouth, down your throat, coursing through your body, veins, blood and bones. Imagine holding that glass to your mouth and how those first few drops would feel, would taste, imagine the way you would devour it, the way the intensity of it could envelop you, in which the fervor alone could bring you to climax, the madness you could lose yourself to. Cold, clean, crisp water filling up your mouth and soothing your dry aching throat. A different kind of delirium.

That's like kissing you. Drinking again after dying of thirst. That is like your kiss.

Write about a time someone said no - January 2, 2011

2011-02-01T15:28:00.000-08:00

"NO?" she screamed and hurled her glass down the stairs, missing him only by his ducking to the left. The glass hit the mirror at the bottom of the stairs, the one beside the door above the table with the glass jar that holds the keys. Glass, mirror, glass, decorum, all smashed.

She bounded down the stairs, two, three, four at a time barely remaining up right. He made to grab her but thought better of it and turned to flee. She grabbed the back of his shirt and attempting to pull him down, stepped on broken glass with bare feet and cried out. Now he turned and grabbed both her arms. Her hatred faded to fear, or pain, or sadness, and her eyes welled up with tears.

"I fucking hate you." He snarled. "I fucking hate you and you've caused it. I said no and I mean it. Get it through your thick, ugly fucking skull."

Rage replacing pain made her go to knee him in the groin but he'd gained back the upper hand and instead connected his fist with her thigh, slamming it down hard. She cried out but had the use of her arm again and tried to punch him in the jaw. Too quick again, he grabbed her fist before it connected and pushed her down.

Landing, palms down, on the broken glass she gave way to tears as he reached into the closet grabbing all her coats, throwing them at her, pulling out all her shoes and boots and chucking them at her head.

"All this fucking shit, I bought you! All this fucking shit I wasted my fucking hard earned-"

"Hard earned?! You sell fucking crack to kids you fucking piece of shit!"

Racing to her, down on his knees, a fistful of hair in his hand "You never had a fucking problem with my occupation when you were eating all that fucking food it paid for, or buying all this fucking shit you littered around this god damn place." He says while knocking over the umbrella stand. "Just get the fuck out."

"Ha, or what?" She challenges and her face meets with the back of his hand.

"That's fucking what" he says as he gets up, bloodied knee, glass crunching under his feet as he walks away.

She tries to say something, anything, but can barely open her mouth. She tries to peel herself off the floor, off the glass and does so very slowly. Once standing he's back and pushes her down to the ground again, dropping the framed picture of the four of them in Mexico last summer on her stomach. "Nice picture eh? Did he have his finger up your ass in that one? Huh, did he?"

"No."

"No, you guys just waited til later, til the rest of us had gone to bed."

"No."

"NO? Yes you mean. You mean YES!" He roars and comes back at her, aimed to kick.

"NO." she cries, gasps for breath, and covers her head with her arms.

He paces, saying nothing. Finally, after what feels like hours, and could very well have been considering the light turning to dark, she hears the door creak and knows he's sitting now, sitting against the door and she feels it like air being sucked out of the room, he's calming down. They'd been here enough times before for her to know what she did next was very important and had to be played out with extreme caution. Going to him too soon would add fuel to a dying fire, moving too quickly would enrage a cornered tiger, waiting too long, all would be lost. He began to cry and so she knew it was time to crawl her way to him, slowly, gingerly, quietly, lovingly.

Reaching him she placed her bloodied hands first on his legs, up to his arms and finally on his face, turning his chin to raise his head to meet hers. She kissed the spot below his eye where she'd cut him upstairs, then kissed his lips and cringed with the pain of her broken jaw. He looked at her stunned, like he always did when things like this happened, like he had no idea how they'd gotten there, how there was the blood, why they were on the floor. She often wondered if he blacked out when things like this happened, she often wished she had. Well once she had but that was from being hit too hard, when she woke that time he was the one apologizing, down on his knees comforting, begging.

This time he was crying and grasping at her and all she could do was whisper "It's o.k."

Shadows - January 25th, 2011

2011-01-26T00:09:00.000-08:00

Walking home that day I was upset with Billy for saying Melissa had dog breath. He kept jabbering on and on and on, all the walk home, about the hockey stick his dad was going to buy him for his 10th birthday, and all I could think was "ya, if he puts the bottle down long enough to go to the store." I was mad enough to say it too, I almost did, but instead just shared that particular shot with my shadow.

Billy's house smelt like dog breath and he only said those mean things about Melissa because she once said he had dandruff. He put gum in her hair too, after that, but she never found out it was him. I never said anything because I still couldn't decide what was better to have, a best friend, or a pretty girl that just made you do things for her. Sometimes I didn't mind giving her my jello, or getting her an extra chocolate milk from the cafeteria, even if it meant stealing money from my brother's piggy bank. But who would play street hockey with me, obviously not Melissa, so I had decided keeping Billy around was my better choice.

I was getting pretty tired of listening to the hockey stick story, or about how much money his parents were spending on his party, or how he wasn't going to invite Melissa but would invite all her best friends even if they weren't as good looking as her. I started to pretend my shadow was talking back to me, well that my shadow was saying all the things to Billy that I wanted to say, but wouldn't. It was a nice distraction until I tripped and nearly fell into the ditch. Billy, unable to stop talking about himself, even for the split second it would have taken him to laugh at me, gave me a look that made me apologize for almost falling into that dirty ditch, and then he began to ramble again.

Melissa didn't have dog breath, Melissa was the prettiest girl in the school, in the world for all I knew, and her favourite jello flavour was strawberry kiwi. I once tried dating her best friend Emmy, just so I could spend more time with Melissa, that didn't go too well because all Emmy wanted to do was collect tadpoles and kiss. The kissing part was alright, I guess, but tadpoles, c'mon, did she think we're still 6? Emmy dumped me in front of Melissa and Melissa just giggled. Billy said he wouldn't be my friend if I dated Emmy and was spending all his time with Jason Racker, so once again it was my shadow that took the brunt of my heartbreak. I wasn't too sad about Emmy but Melissa saw the whole thing and it meant I wouldn't get to sit with them at lunch anymore. And I had to go back to Billy and hope he'd take me back. He did, after he got to punch me once in the shoulder and give me a wedgy. Luckily for me Melissa didn't see that. Emmy did though and she told Patty and Patty told Trevor and Trevor told the whole class and that's when Melissa said Billy had dandruff and that's when Billy started to hate her. Dandruff, ha ha, I thought it was a good one.

Write about a bed - January 16, 2011

2011-01-22T00:18:00.000-08:00

There are three beds. One, low to the floor, often broken, with it's bottom pieces missing, and dipping in the middle. Or throughout the course of that evening's drunken love making, falling to the floor in loud thumps and cracks, muffling, barely, the cries, pants, moans and groans. Screams. The one that that first night literally did dip in the middle, which at first made for a comfortable place to lay ones hat, metaphorically speaking, but once the booze wore out and the snores gained in intensity, lost it's appeal. The bed that along the course of things moved from one way to another, and remained close to the ground surrounded by clothes and jock straps and laptops and love. No love. Just dirt and sweat and...love.

One bed is off the ground. In a similar room, best friends after all, one a man one a baby. This bed's room, slightly cleaner, due to his knowing I was coming, and his being a man, instead of a child, was clean...er...cleaner. Clean enough and with it's own entrance and with a t.v. and water and all sorts of things you would expect from a bed, a room , a man. A whatever.

Whatever.

The third bed is mine, as I want it as I have it. Mine. Always welcoming always wandering always mine and me and mine.

And welcome to my predicament, though what predicament is mine you might ask, and I might know, or not know. I might know nothing at all, as it seems, as it seems...tonight, right now, always? Sometimes? Just now. Only now. What am I saying?

I'm saying I want the one, have the other and need just me.

I'd be happy with the one if he weren't tied so closely to the other. But you can not have one with out the other and so I should have none. I should have none i should have none i should have none...I'd want the one...if not for the other for I want the other. The other I can not have, despite...despite what? Despite the tricks my ego will play? Despite the teaming up of my eyes, my heart, my body and my mind, all against me, how can all of me be against me? You see my dilemma? What good am I to anyone when I destroy even myself?

Betty said tonight, reassuring me, or goading me, or making me feel better for just that minute, "40% of it is just pure body chemistry, ain't nothing you can do about that" and I said "really? 40% you think, is that what this madness is? can i really stop beating myself up about this?" - "absolutely. what's that saying? the heart wants what the heart wants...except sometimes it's not the heart...it's just science fucking with us. all you can do is hold on and hope to come back to your senses."

And so I hold on and try to be 32 and try to make the right decisions but everything is upside down and backwards and one minute I know and the next I know nothing at all.

Beds.....you know sometimes, the first, second, or maybe third time you are in someones bed, someone that you think "this could actually go somewhere", you look around and try to absorb it all, think "one day this will be old. one day the way the sun hits the sheet at this time of day will go by unnoticed, that corner where I stare, I will see no more, or will become my solace. one day my clothes will sit atop that dresser, last weeks bracelet upon the nightstand" I've often laid in beds, after sex, before it, while someone fetches water, booze, an ashtray, and tried to soak the whole thing in, tried to fit myself into it. Imagined having the key...and all the times it could've happened, I bolted. And all the times it couldn't, I've stuck around to pine.

And so I am so desperate to be alone and yet everything that makes me me is so desperate to attach itself to something. No that sounds wrong, not desperate, predispositioned to. How do you constantly fight a battle...alone.

ugh i feel crazy.

they all need to go.

all beds but mine.

Look out your window, write what you see. - January 20, 2011

2011-01-21T01:52:00.000-08:00

I see you.

That's it, that's all. All I see is you and you and you and you, and you never leave, you still haven't left and it's all I see. Out the window, behind closed eyes, in front of me, behind me, looking at me. I see you in your bed, I see you in mine. I see you in the bar, in the pub, in my car. I look out the window and it's all I see.

I see a reflection of me through blurry eyes, looking back at me. I see the way you looked at me. The way every time I raised my eyes, braved my shot, (shot at what who knows) you were looking right back. Smirking. Every time I looked up, you were all I saw.

Why did you come in? Why did you all come in? How can you give a zero on a scale of? It's fishy, or I'm grasping at straws.

And what says it of me to grasp at straws? To crawl in bed with a good guy, a good man, and be consumed with you? What says it of me? What does it say?

I look out the window and all I see is you. Where ever I look, it's you.

Listening to Moon & Moon by Bat for Lashes

2011-01-21T01:35:00.000-08:00

it's hard to write when you've got so much on your mind.

write, not blog.

Write about the horizon - January 14, 2011

2011-01-17T17:09:00.000-08:00

She knew this day would come. And here it is.

Everyone has left, John gone fishing, Isabel over at the Drake's, Mikey down at the river. Everyone has left but her. She stands at the window, looking over the horizon, the golden wavering horizon. In the wind the wheat dances and the white sheets roll on like waves, tucking in and back, rolling up and over.

She holds on to a soapy plate, which moments before had been in the soapy sink. I knew this day would come, she thinks, and here it is.

Placing the plate down on the counter, still soaked and soapy, she wipes her hands on her apron and places them on either side of the sink, sinking in. Without moving her body she turns her head around, looking over her wide open kitchen. All of it hers and yet none of it what she wanted. The picture of her friends in the frame, friends she hasn't seen in years. The fruit bowl in the center of the table that would fit better in an apartment she never had. Muddy gumboots in the corner, more practical than fashionable. The rooster in the corner on the shelf, evidence of what her family thinks of her. Panic creeps in, slowly, she feels it in her heart first and decides to breathe. Just to breathe is usually all it takes. She turns back out the window and remembers it's going to rain later, she should bring in the sheets, the bikes. Sheets and bikes. My life.

Looking down she remembers what she was doing and picks up the plate again, rinsing it and setting it aside. A memory comes back to her of a thousand lives ago, watching John dive at the pool back in the city, and the burgers they'd went out for after. Maybe she'd make burgers for dinner. Distraction is key, and so with that she pulls the plug, drains the sink, takes off her apron and checks the freezer for meat. She thinks then of just leaving. What would happen if I just started walking? If I just went. She looks to the door, locates her shoes, purse, sees Mikey's jacket. I'm sure I told him to grab it before he ran off....the kids would be fine, John is a good father and Auntie Deb would step in, for a time.....for just that little bit of time, for me to figure it out. To breathe.

Looking at her shoes again she takes her hand off the meat and closes the freezer door. I wouldn't even need shoes. She puts them on and walks outside. This is where she can really breathe, this air, this breeze, the smell and sound, somewhere she hears laughter, a child's laugh and for a second she is laughing and crying all at once. She looks over the horizon, admires the ease at which the wind can blow and the grass can breathe and she shakes it off. Walking over to the sheets she hears the laughter again and begins to pull them down. On the horizon she sees her boys coming home and allows herself, for those few moments, before her little man jumps in her arms and her husband kisses her forehead, to remember those that came before them. Friends, lovers, lives, laughter, horizons. And with the smell of that day's catch, she breathes in the man that she does still love, and wonders if she should make rice, to go with the fish, for their dinner tonite.

After midnight - January 13, 2011

2011-01-17T15:57:00.000-08:00

After midnight I creep into your room, I can't remember the last time we were asleep before the sun came up, or at least before it woke and started it's rise on our side. I can't remember the last time I fell asleep here not drunk, in fact at night, I don't think I've ever been here not drunk. You're sleeping, sound, and beside the bed I strip off my clothes. It's freezing and I climb as carefully in and under and snuggle up to your skin. Now you stir, you don't fright, you just touch me back, pull my arm around you and let me sink in. I'm glad we don't have to talk, I'm sick of talking and thinking. I'm sick of the small town and the big mouths, I'm sick of you living on the same street as your best friend. I'm sick of still thinking about your best friend. I'm sick of bad timing and so I am happy you don't lock your doors and so happy to sleep.

You Are in a Motel Room - January 11, 2011

2011-01-13T00:24:00.000-08:00

Pacing. Always pacing. Where is he? He's been gone for 45 minutes while I swear I hear the dead man's heart beat. Tick, tick, tick. Tock.

Knock!

I jump. Panic. BANG! BANG! BANG! "LET ME IN, IT'S ME!"

I run to the door, pause, rest my cheek on it and breathe. Perhaps now my mind will come back, tell me what to do, where is that part of me that speaks. Fight or flight fight or flight fight or flight BANG! BANG! BANG!

Fuck.

I open the door too scared to remember I should have checked it was him for sure. He barrels in, pushing me out of the way, all plastic bags, sticks....and maybe even stones.

"What have you been doing?" Something of a growl.

I only stare.

He stares back and asks again without speaking.

"I..ughm...I...I've just been sitting", not true at all I've been pacing, pacing, pacing, from here to there, there to here, pacing. "ummm..." I shrug and start to cry.

"Oh give me a fucking break and get in here with me."

He's asking me to go into the bathroom and I can not. I try, for fear of ending up with that man in the bathtub, but I can not. MOVE! I tell my feet, legs, anything, pick up and place down and go, go to the bathroom. I am paralyzed. Literally.

He hasn't waited for me, he is in there and I can hear stuff, bags, thumps, grunts. And all I can picture is blood and my mind is playing tricks and I am sure I am in some t.v. show, what I saw I didn't see I watched. And there is a way out, this is one of those dreams where you know you are fine, you know when you wake up none of this will matter because it is not actually happening, and then I realize it is happening and I start to scream. I can not move my feet but I can scream and I am screaming and he is beside me grabbing me and trying to cover my mouth, smothering me. He is grabbing at me and picking me up and carrying me into the bathroom. Holding me, showing me and I am crying and my screams turn to whispers of "oh no, oh no, oh no no no.." And I start to sob.

He sits down, me on his lap, on the toilet and pulls my face into his chest and shields me from the horror. For a second I forget, I am actually so consumed by the comfort of this action and my tears, I forget why we're in this mess in the first place, or even that there is a mess. There is just my sobs, his hands, the heat coming from his chest, his smell and as he rubs my back, as so often it does, it changes from soothing to erotic and before I know it we are kissing. Before I know it we have left the bathroom and he is placing me on the bed and our lips don't leave just once. I have no clothes, I have no eyes, I have no real desire and yet my body has taken over and this is good. Something needs to finally take over.

When I wake up it is a different kind of night. Like how eight o'clock is different than eleven, or two a.m. is different than four. He's not here. Naked I walk to the bathroom, neither is he. I can tell the blood has been scrubbed, he's tried to erase it but...he can't.

And then I know.

Without clothes or shoes I run.

Write about a wound. - January 10, 2011

2011-01-12T15:15:00.000-08:00

Wounds heal. A few days ago I started writing this, it's been a few days now and so much changes in the matter of moments and bottles of wine.

January 10:

Wow, never a more fitting time.

Write about a wound, how bout this one? This one reopened this weekend, reopened isn't fair for it was never really closed. Didn't have the time. Never got the chance.

It's bizarre the damage you caused, the severity of the devastation, the extent of this so called wound. Bizarre because who are you? Who are you over me to reduce me to such ruble. You are a child and even smaller than me. You had no business invading my heart, storming my shores and bruising my troops. No business at all. You are a child and made me cry all the time. If you weren't an angry drunk you were an indifferent one, with all sorts of "Oh ok's" and "if you say so's", never meaning a word. And yet, I think of you still. Never stopped and you walk in on Saturday and my skin breaks, and my blood oozes and I hide in bathroom stalls, messaging everyone I know. "He's here, and I'm hiding in the bathroom."

Falling in love, madness, complete, unexplainable, insanity.

January 12:

Write about a wound. They heal. Most of the time it is up to us, our body regenerates and heals itself with flesh wounds and so should our mind when the wounds are on the inside. If I go forward from here I make the conscious decision to put you behind, to forget and let go, no matter how many times I may run into you on the street, on the wall in a frame, or out with your best friend. And if I take the stroll down the path laid out before me, I will do it all again. Months from now I will be healing similar wounds and friends will be picking me up off the floor once more. We always do it once again, or at least I do, and I think that's o.k. I'm not ready for the one thing I really want, I still have wounds to heal and so, in the meantime, why not get up to fall down again?

was gonna write...

2011-01-12T04:12:00.000-08:00

...got drunk and stoned instead.

but it's all just more material for the book!

so....

"Oh he was being all "Katrina"."

"Oh wow ya, I guess he..was..."

"The problem with being all Katrina though, is, that there's a fucking hurricane going on inside."

sorry....have been "researching"....

2011-01-11T18:12:00.000-08:00

Haha, will start posting soon!

It's what I do in the middle of the night. - January 07, 2011

2011-01-08T01:59:00.000-08:00

Sleep. Well in the middle of my night, which is probably different than the middle of your night, I am asleep.

Well hopefully anyway.

The middle of my night, which I'm sure is different than the middle of yours, though we'd have to get into definitions of night to really be able and judge. Needless to say, when you hear/read the sentence 'middle of the night' you picture black, bed, sleep, night, middle of, passed out, dead to the world, asleep, middle. of. Ok. My middle of the night is about 6 a.m.

I think I'm going to have a cookie. So I guess this will be my way of working my stream of consciousness/dear diary type blogging into this blog. Finding it's niche. This is how I'll do it, work myself, like the real deal, into this blog. I've had a bit too drink and smoked a deubie, and am getting totally overworked here by a cookie....i should prob just have it and get it over with instead of being consumed by it for the next how ever long it takes before i cave and eat it.

Anyways, in the middle of this night i hope to sleep, dreamlessly. I could use the off switch, whenever I'm fortunate enough to get it.

I am thinking about someone less now. It's so odd how one day you just realize you haven't thought about them yet that day, at like 1 a.m. You go from being tired of it, tired of them living in your brain and poking at your heart to realizing you can't even remember their astrological sign.

(p.s. i am eating the cookie.)

This time I'm paying attention, I'm watching the clock and it's been two days since I thought of him in the middle of the night.

there was so much more but man can 15 minutes drag out when you are not sober

Write about a day moon - January 05, 2011

2011-01-05T23:04:00.000-08:00

Day moon, day moon....day moon. The instructions in this book say to go with the first image that comes to mind as soon as you read that day's subject. And just to go. Just to write never looking back and if that image changes, roll with it. Right now I am drawing a blank.

I've been wondering if I should put any personal stuff in this blog, a la Dear Diary, I still don't know. Hiding behind writing exercises is really appealing, but I have stuff to say and a heart I am adept at laying on the line so. Who knows. Write about a day moon.... Fucking day moon.

Five days in and already I have writers block. Fantastic.

A day moon is not unlike a night moon, a morning moon, a lunchtime moon. The moon is always there, we just so rarely take the time to look at it unless it is glaringly obvious. Shining down on us, all "look at me look at me I shine and am round and change shape." Sometimes laying in the park, on the grass, looking up, you catch a glimpse, and then your skin begins to itch and you realize you're breaking out in hives. You've been here before. So you run home striping as fast as you can and hop in the shower. Day moon or not, you know you'll never lay in that grass again. Twice is too many times to break into hives after a minutes rest in the grass. Day moon day moon day moon. I wonder why the cow ever jumped over it. And how he ended up hooking up with the spoon. What business did a cow and a spoon have? What could they've had in common and/or to talk about? Though, as most are aware, none more than me, having stuff in common or even to talk about is not tantamount to hanging out. Sometimes you just like the way they smile or the way their skin feels. Sometimes you just like the way they kiss. Sometimes you just like the way you think they are even though you don't have any idea. Sometimes you'd just like to go somewhere with them, lay out on the lake and look up at a day moon. Mostly sometimes you just wish the day's subject line wasn't "write about a day moon" so you wouldn't feel like a failure already.

I am sick and have a sore back that is traveling into my neck so it is time for NyQuil and sweet dreams of boys under a moon, in the night.

Fucking day moon.

(After further research I now realize the cow did not run away with the spoon, and yes I am aware that it was not a day moon the cow jumped over but give me a break. The spoon ran away with the bowl, a much better pairing for the little guy. It appears even inanimate objects make better decisions than I.)

A Year After Your Death - January 04, 2011

2011-01-04T23:41:00.000-08:00

A year after your death and we are still no closer for solving it. Detective Dick continues to spend more time staring at my tits and smoking cigarettes than answering questions and questioning answers. We are no further a long and no further at peace. I, of course, still suspect your landlord, but you know how I felt about her. A female landlord after all, one that saunters around in those fuzzy slippers from the olden days and that silky negligee that doubles as a robe, she calls it that anyways, my robe. "Where is my robe, Jeffrey?" she calls and Jeffrey comes holding her chihuahua or pomeranian or whatever the hell kind of stupid dog it is "Yes, madam" he says in his silly little put on accent. "Where IS my red robe, Jeffrey" like there is a canary yellow one she doesn't want him to grab instead. You know I never trusted her and still to this day she pats me on the shoulder when passing by "Oh my dear Sadie, how pale you appear, how are you my darling", like we are living in some foreign long forgotten time when people speak like this, where people say "Jeffrey", and wear red robes with fur collars. I flinch at her touch. Every time, and look her straight in the eye, "Well I'd be a lot better if my brother were alive, Miss Cottonwood. Good day" I say and walk away.

Sometimes I see Jeffrey looking in my windows when he should be paying attention to the plants he's watering. How he doesn't see me looking back I'll never know, unless he's not really seeing at all. He's never quite looked the same after we found you laying there, in the roses, why is it always roses, Robert, why? I always loved roses and now every one I see reminds me of blood and nothing else. Maybe that was always the point of them, to juxtapose love and blood, one spilling is really the same as the other, isn't it. Isn't it, Robert?

I'm afraid Miss Cottonwood is getting to me, her delusions drip down through the grates and I find myself dodging them, from plank to plank, carpet to wood, wood to carpet, skipping cracks so as not to break my mothers back...you see I am losing it on account of the crazies seeping through the vents. They breath on me and in me and I wake up lost and forgotten, forgetting.

One day you and I shall haunt Detective Dick together.

You're Standing in a Doorway - january 03, 2011

2011-01-04T00:10:00.000-08:00

I am standing in a doorway, I have been here before. Not this particular doorway, but any doorway would suffice for the circumstance is all too similar. I am standing in a doorway looking in trying to walk out. On one hand there is what I want, on the other what I want. On the one what I want right then and there, on the other what I want all over, over all, in general, in the end, ultimately. Ultimately in the end in general. What I want. What I want right now is to climb back in that bed, to wipe the tears or shed them, to touch your skin to feel your arms to rub my cheek against your chest, to meld, melt, dissolve. To kiss and hold and cuddle and move and touch and hold and leap. To jump off the cliff, with you, in you, into you. On you, all over you. What I want is for everything to change from this moment on, from this moment forward, from this doorway I want it to all rewind or fast forward or move in one direction or the other. When I step across this threshold, because who am I kidding, you know I'll end up back in that bed, I want it all to fall finally into place, all before it to wrap itself up into a neat little package, work out the kinks and hand itself back to us all fixed up and ready to go. You for me, me for you, and the universe on our side.

On the other side, if my left foot went down and my right foot went back, I could turn and run. I could cry in the wind and run once again, stumbling home and up the stairs and in my bed and here I'd lay, another time once more, over and over wondering was it worth it. Was it worth missing the touch when I'll just go back again. Was it worth it for what has come of it, how much better off am I now if any, and wont I just end up there again, in that doorway or one just the same.

And so I'm standing in this doorway, a doorway like, and unlike, any before it, perhaps it is mine, I hope it is mine, I hope not to jinx it, but this time it is mine. It is my doorway and my bed and you are in it and I can not run this time and I can not make the decision to come or go because I do not go from here. I don't even need to kick you out because in the morning, when the sun comes up again, it is you that has to leave. It is me that gets to stay, that gets to climb back in that bed, (it is a white bed, it is on the floor and the room has hardwood floor, there is so much white) and I get to climb back in that bed and smell us. I get to wrap in the messy sheets and stick my face into the pillow you slept on, suffocate in it, kick my feet past wet spots and the spot I laid my head before you pulled me to the ground and we spilled the water, waking my neighbour bellow us. And when I get up to put the kettle on, and look out the window, I can smile because it is my window and when I sit down to cry I will be crying on my couch in my place and I will look at that doorway where I stood and considered. When for that split second I remembered all the doorways before it, all the times I ran, all the times I should of and I will only remember the time I ran from it and jumped into the bed with you and the way you laughed and the way I jumped and the way I laughed. And I will realize none of it really mattered, because of all the tears and all the hurt and all the pain and after it all, there was still that time we laughed and loved and that's always been good enough for me.

no more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love

2010-12-29T01:36:00.000-08:00

wow. looks like not much has changed. instead of having gone to bed at a reasonable time, i've spent the past hour reading past posts, realizing they could all have been written tonite, yesterday, last week.

well, in all actuality i'm not quite the disaster i was 2 years ago, i suppose. no blow, so, that's good. still having my heart broken though, constantly, the latest being by a 22 year old boy.

oooh what a boy.

i have sworn off men, for the meantime anyways. the more i think about it the less i know why i've done it, i feel like it's a heavy cross to bare if i don't find the lesson in it. or find the reason for it...i continue to make bad decisions so i figure, i guess, if i make no decisions at all, i should be ok. right? i've set an end date of when i move into my new apartment. i haven't found that apartment but i feel confident it will find me. i'm aiming for april, but will be satisfied as long as i'm out of here by summer. but not getting laid til summer makes me think i need to set up some sort of game plan for this whole no man thing. like what exactly does "no men" mean? no sex? no sleepovers? no making outs? no flirting or dancing? no eyes, no smiles, no knees touching under tables? no nothing?

originally i wanted to spend some time concentrating on me, fixing me, getting shit together fiiiiinaally. and with my mind so constantly tied up with men, i figured i need to free up some of that mind/will power and really kick this life into gear, y'know. start to move forward, become self sufficient...make myself whole and all that other mumbo jumbo "they" throw at you.

the other night after a thousand beers i ended up in someones bed, qu'elle surprise right, but, i would have no part in any of it. i just slept. well first i cried, and laughed, and then cried some more, but then i slept and let his compliments wrap around me instead of his arms.

it was easy though, with all my heart still consumed by that 22 year old with the softest skin and biggest smile.

i think mostly i just feel empty, and so for now, today and every day until it's done, i look to take back whatever it was i gave to him, and then we go from there.

2007-03-05T13:59:00.000-08:00

him - Everything about you makes my skin itch. I can safely say I’ve never spoken to a more attractive woman.

her - ha ha! You’ve got to stop!

him - But it’s the truth.

her - I know

him - I’m going to hell.

her - That’s ok, I’ll be there too.

him - We’ll hook up there then.

her - yeah, but that's a long wait…

him - Ya. But, hell's for eternity.

dirty myspace boy

2006-12-15T00:56:00.000-08:00

"he got you twice" she says.

yep.

"but i sent him a message that went like this - i think you're actually an asshole and if you try to tell me again that you aren't, i'll stick my foot in your face. do you see where my problem is? i think youre a prick but youre cute as trouble."

"well that's more like you!"

"what do you mean?"

"attitude"

I 'spose.

He was tall and skinny and rough and shaggy, black hair, black scruff, lip ring. Tight jeans, silver studded belt, black hoodie, and a dick more perfect than any before it. The first time I went there, months after first communicating, I'd gone with every intention NOT to sleep with him. It was the beginning of summer, before any vows of celibacy even crossed my mind, before playing the part of a hooker and gauging out men's tattoos, but I'd made the conscious decision to not give it up to this touched soul.

Instantly on his couch I sprawled out and sipped vodka and his face seaped into my heart and opened up my legs. I would have been fine had I not seen his dick, for it was a marvelous dick, and had I not had that condom, which i'd intended on using with someone else. And before I knew it I was on top of him thinking "he'll never talk to me again" but still i couldnt stop. At two in the morning, after driving around the corner from his house, i sat on the curb, smoking, feeling like i was a thousand miles away. Feeling like I was some where east, on a stoop, texting crazy adventures to my girls back home. Maybe it was the buzz of downtown at 2.am., maybe it was the vodka, stale in my blood. Maybe it was the flops of my tummy, the feeling of running out a door, down some steps and out into air, breathing for the first time in ever. Minor cpr to the system, shocks to wake up my sleeping heart.

Of course I never heard from him again, until remembrance day. Until he dragged me out my house and back to his and this time there was not a possibility of his penis entering my body.

...well...with penises there are always possibilities.

I actually asked him not to take it out, I did, I actually said dont take it out and of course he did. Which put so much into perspective. He was just a child. Unless maybe my eyes truly do have a mind of their own and even when i say no they deceive even the best of them. My eyes scream YES, they actually form sounds and say please please pleeeeease. It's possible, although I prefer, and mostly know, that he was just a young, disrespectful, dirty boy, with a face to confuse the fuck out of me.

Late outside my house I kissed that beautiful cock and sucked it dry. All defenses left for the evening, walked off shift while he drank jack daniels from the bottle and my heart and head said oh let me be that liquid. Curse a face that looks like that.

It was weeks before he noticed I'd removed myself from anywhere he could find me. I told him he was bad news and I'd disappeared, he said "i thought we were friends?" I said no- "occasionally you call me when you need to blow a load, which to me, does not a friendship make."

And off he goes again.

And so he got me twice.

And I'm betting on a third.

365 Days

2006-11-17T01:06:00.000-08:00

Last night I laid in bed and felt a way I haven't felt in over 13 months. I couldnt sleep, more than I usually can not sleep, and was sent speeding back to a smaller room, a smaller bed, a room with red walls. I laid with my eyes open and even in the black I knew my walls were not red. I knew I couldn't reach out to my right and feel the glossy candy apple red wall, I knew I couldn't whisper "my good friend the wall". I knew a year ago that moment I laid in a different bed up against another wall, a wall who kept me grounded, kept me solid. To my right laid a body and skin more beautiful than I'm sure I'll ever lay beside again. And so last night, past 3 a.m., I reached behind me, above a headboard, and touched my soft expensive blue walls. But there was no comfort. All there was was the inconvenience of my period, a fight with my boss, and the anniversary of my return home, the memory of what I did every step I took, 365 days ago.

And what does 365 days mean? How fast, how slow? How many tears, how many smiles, how many beers? How much sex, how much love, if any? How many adventures?

In the past year I've been fingered in the back of a crowded van and on a golf course. I've slept with a rockstar, a stranger, an italian, or two, and the second man i've ever loved (which no other has compared to). I've stood beside the love of my life as she married the man of her dreams, and watched as heaven and earth parted clouds and shone down on us great sun, as if it were an affirmation. Watched the light of my life's ex boyfriend self destruct and burn all his bridges. I've been guided by fate to a job, that while it slips thru my fingers, has led me to some of the greatest friends I'll ever have. I spent 4 months with a little blonde boy who lit up my house and kept my heart pumping through times of much dismay. Been to Chicago and back, drove thru the flat midwest, back to where it started. Was told in the rain, outside a country bar, that someone loved me, was looked down on and held, and convinced no one will ever love me more than that one. I've crushed and hoped and been rejected, blasphemous as it is.

I've had this blog, I've made these friends, I've wrote. I've missed and reminisced. I've laughed, I've laughed and laughed and laughed. Laughed and continued along in my journey secure enough in it's beauty, assured enough in it's laughter, in laughter strong enough to convince me I've lived the fullest life.

A year ago last night, as I laid in my bed, my big bed in my big blue room, I laid far off, far off just off Grove Street in Jersey City, New Jersey. I'd said goodbye to my red room (which is now pastel I'm sure), said goodbye to my brownstone on East St. Rolled the suitcase past the pump pumping out the sewage from the basement flood. Walked away from my roommate who had been my everything during a time of nothing. I laid in his bed, surrounded by his white walls, dying. Shedding the last layer of skin, dreading, willing, scared.

The morning of he dressed in his suit and left me sleeping, as we'd done for days and days and weeks before. Off he went the adult in the tie, leaving the child with the backpack on her way to camp in bed, sprawled and messy and desperate for rescuing. I hopped on the subway to 33rd, walked in a daze searching for pashminas and knew I was done. I'd lost it for my city and was ready for home. It couldnt hurt anymore, I'd used up all the sadness and all was left was empty. I walked those streets like a zombie and on the subway back, wiped tears I did not cry from my cheeks.

On his couch he held me. I asked him to lay down and hold me for those few minutes before the car, before the traffic, before the drive away. I rested my head on his chest and we sat in silence, with absolutely nothing left to say. It had been over a year, we'd shook eachother down to the deepest of cores and there was nothing left to say.

This time last year I'd arrived from Seattle maybe an hour ago, both sisters and dog here to greet me, new boots on my feet, new scars on my soul.

I'd left so much behind, but I can tell you what a year has shown me. A year has shown me there are people who believe in me, there are people who know me, who know the good parts of me I thought no one knew. I've learnt I'm a good worker, a hard worker and that I can not only woo men but employers all the same. Ive walked from love again and honoured my strength to do so. I've realized the magnitude of a dream and captured it, bottled it, held it on my person as I glaze over and gaze past an espresso machine, watching leaves with no crunch blow in the rain, looking back over time.

When I visit the past I put myself in his arms and we spin, and we spin so much the dust kicks up and inside a bubble of dust we transcend into truth and I tell him I love him and I tell him to look for me around every corner, and that I cannot promise to be there, but that I'll always wish I could.

It's weird I find myself so lonely a year to the day I shed the loneliest skin I ever wore.

B- Corner Bistro, tomorrow around 1? I'll meet you at 9th Street.

I wish.

...bumped his head on the foot of the bed...

2006-06-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

We were two blocks from home, he sat on my shoulders complaining that the rain was tickling his neck. I felt so cool having him up there, on my shoulders, legs on my chest, hands in my hands and when it started to rain it became a scene from a movie. The sun shone and the rain came from nowhere, felt the first drop on my foot, heard him say "it tickles". I told him to look for rainbows and then it poured. Out of no where it came down and down and he started laughing, laughing like an adult and not a two year old, laughing from his gut, squealing and screaming and I almost died. I laughed and he laughed and as we walked I noticed people looking, people unloading their cars, people pulling stuff in, out of the rain, people looking and breaking into smiles. We walked by a house being renovated, a house we walk by everyday, and everyday he says "what's that house" and I say "they're rebuilding it" and he says "fixing de windows" and I say "yep" and the men look and smile and surely talk about my ass, but today, all the men outside, on ladders, sitting in windows, wheeling dirt, stopped to look. Stopped to look and smile and the kid and I kept laughing and squealing and got louder, we were laughing and the men said nothing about my ass, the men started laughing, the men stuck out their arms, lifted up their chins and swallowed the rain, welcomed the sun. We turned the neighbourhood upside down and ran from tree to tree to get shelter for a second and then out under the drops and he'd squeal and I'd laugh and we'd skip and sing "it's raining it's pouring the old man is snoring, bumped his head on the foot of the bed..." And it was beautiful.

Conversations with a 3 year old.

2006-04-09T14:27:00.000-07:00

3 year old says: "You have five nails."

other person says: "How many toes?"

3yo: ".........5...6, 7, 8, 9, 10"

op: "So how many toe nails?"

3yo: Major confusion, frustration, thinking, looks up at you, all full of attitude and finally says, like a bitchy 15 year old girl, "No one cares." And walks away.

...so you're not talking to me now?

2006-03-07T22:04:00.000-08:00

Ha!

Ha ha ha ha hahaahahahahahaha! AhahahahahahaahahahahahaHAHAHA!

Ha.

Ok so let me get this straight......So we meet, we laugh, we fuck. We fuck and laugh for two months when I then have a crazy psychic dream, which I don't know is psychic until the following morning when I get the email from my step dad informing me my granddad is in the hospital, and you have to take me to the airport. I've been away from home for three months, we've been fucking for just over two, I'm still feeling very confident and surprised that my emotions seem to be remaining in check, I'm winning the battle as far as I can see. At the airport you drop me off, because we're late, surprise surprise, and off you go to find parking. After a few minutes you're letting me know you've missed the parking exit and are back on the highway. It hits me. I get the wooz in my tummy, the choke in my throat, my eyes well, and I muster out "It's ok. It's ok. Yeah, it's totally ok." I rush to get off the phone so that you don't hear the upset in me and you throw out "Wait...are you outside....k hang on a second." I smile. I beam from inside. You pull up. We hug. We kiss. You give me a pen from your trunk and off you go. Off I go. Friday night I arrive and 24 hours later my granddad dies. I call to let you know, leave you a message, receive a message from you, leave you another message and wait almost a full week to hear back. That's when I should have known. That's when I should have pulled out but it was far too late. I was in. I was there, you were it, you so quickly became the part of myself that attaches on and makes everything right and I should have known. I remember the night you called, you left me a message and I made my mom listen "Listen to him! He's a man. A MAN I swear to god, like a man man, you know?"

You picked me up from the airport and I think that sealed our disastrous fate. You met my mom, got me two lap dances for my birthday, fucked me better than I ever knew possible, you were a man, at the time it was impressive, now it seems sad, your life is making you old, but that's jumping too far ahead. I spend Christmas with your family, not because you want me to, not because you enjoy the uncomfortableness of bringing home a white girl that looks 12, not because you enjoy the uneasiness of having your sister introduce me to everyone as your friend, Robyn, but because you feel sorry for me, I'm away from home for the first time at Christmas, my granddad is dead and both my roommates are out of state. Immigration kicks me out and January 1st, 2005 at 7:45 a.m. my flight to Vancouver leaves. I sleep in the car on the drive to JFK, I sit in your lap at the airport, I feel like death. I almost miss my plane on my search for some orange juice, but I get home. I make it.

Home is hell. We don't know what to do, you want to talk but not relationship, you want us to talk when we want and fuck when we can but not be in a long distance relationship. How nice for you. We meet in Seattle, I go through what has become typical border interrogation for me trying to get there. We meet. We fuck. We laugh. I cry and tell you that's it, you either want me, and if you do then you find me, if not, never talk to me again. You get sick.

I get home and wait. You don't call. I break, I call, we talk, we're talking, I'm coming back. You pick me up once again, this time from Newark. You're a dick, I call screaming like a crazy girl "you're a JACKASS, I can't believe I've done this, I can't believe you've done this, you're such a jackass". I sleep till you call, you call, I fall in love. And so it goes, you call, I love, you disappear, I cry, you call, I love, you go, I cry, I rip at my hair, I envision throwing myself down stairs, I lose myself so completely I have no idea who I am or how I got there. I miss my home and cry myself to sleep every night, except I can't sleep so I stay up till 6 a.m. staring at the red of my room and then I sleep till 2. You ruin me and kill me and I die and I know it's my own fault so I die even more. I'm gone. I'm dead and I'm all alone. My roommate stops talking to me and you step up to the plate but you continually fuck up again and again and the last Saturday I sob in you're bed saying "you've walked all over me" because up until that point I was sure I was a big girl, I was sure I was responsible, I was sure my knowing what you could give excused you giving so little and taking so much, until the end, until I knew you’d screwed up.

At the airport you said "let's just keep talking for now, let's just keep talking because I want to come there so let's wait till that and deal with it then, I can't not talk to you on your birthday, I can't not call you at Christmas". "Ok". I ran for my plane and lucked out beside two guys that set the course of my life up to this very minute. Fate, I suppose, I was fine, I've been fine. I am fine.

We talk, you disappear, I say fuck it, you have excuses, I say fuck it, you hang up. For weeks I think of being your friend, I think it would work, I want to try it, I have faith. But I wait, I wait to be sure my heart is not messing with my mind or my mind hasn't teamed up, for the first and I'm sure last time, with my heart and they are both playing me "yessssss....it's fine, you're totally ok, you can do it, it'll be good, nothing but good, just do it." I wait. You cave. You email me and say what I never thought you would, which isn't much. I reply, we talk, we'll be friends, completely unsure of how, but ok. I'm scared I'll wake up the next day in love with you again, but I don't. I wake up feeling the same as I did a week before.

You called on Sunday, left a message, didn't say "I'll talk to you soon", didn't say "Call me back", didn't say "I'll call you back", just some random stuff and a bye.

Do I call you back? I don't really want to call you back, no point, really, and I know I need to keep some distance incase I can wake up in love, but is it mean? Is it mean of me to NOT call you back? We're friends now, I don't call my friends back, I'm incredibly lucky to still have any friends at all because I don't call anyone, I rarely see anyone, I don't want to. But....you aren't really a friend, so is it mean?

Angela says "Well, you know what's going to happen. I'd wait until he calls again, cuz you know he will." Yeah, I know he will, he'll hound me down until I respond.

Tonite, Tuesday, two days past, 1 New Message - "...so you're not talking to me now?"

Seriously??

"Does he still call you?"

2006-02-21T01:40:00.000-08:00

It's crazy how life all of a sudden shifts gears, like from neutral into 4th, like SNAP!

Like you've been sleeping for all your life and you wake up, speeding on a boat, galloping on a horse, for three quick seconds.

It always happens in threes, or fours or even sometimes twos, never once. Never does one thing happen. Nothing happens for forever, and just when you're on the brink of smashing the alarm clock over your head, waking yourself up by doing something incredibly stupid, shaking your boredom out, something incredibly stupid for you to do lands in your lap. Like a partner getting mad, "fine", slamming the door on their way out. You want it, you got it.

Life letting you know it hasn't forgotten about you.

I've realized something, a guarantee, they always come back. They always come back.